Winged

Chapter Nine

Annabelle

I had lost the bet I had made with Rhem and spend the rest of the day sulking in our little hideout.

I swear it, Sabrina was a water-weaver, not wind! I could have sworn it. I mean, the storm, the ocean... It looked like a water-based ability to me. I don't know how Rhem picked it out correctly, but I still reckon she cheated.

Somehow.

Rhem had found me during Ethan's betrayal, snuggling in a small pocket as he took me, and hid in the lab while they took vials of our blood and samples of our skin.

But as my closest friend, I can't help but love her. She left her home, her children, to keep me company. She travelled a long way to be here. Thank God I have her, even if she's a filthy cheat.

Sabrina

I still can't believe it.

Magic.

Annabelle had shown me her skill of communicating with animals, understanding and commanding them like a beloved queen. Maybe we were royal, in our own ways.

I commanded the wind, although Anna thought it was water, at first.

Annabelle didn't understand how my ability worked and quickly got frustrated trying to teach me. I was left to try to figure it out myself, but thinking commands in my head, then picturing the result seemed to work if I concentrated hard enough.

The hardest thing for me was learning what to focus on. The wind? Me? My inner soul? What about my outer soul? Either way, I didn't even know where to find them, or what part of them to focus on. There was something Anna could help with.

She got me to focus on the feeling. Of wind gently brushing my wild, dark hair into my face, tying itself into knots, cooling my skin. Of flying through the air back in the bushland near our old setup, of wind in my many feathers, making them tingle with delight.

So that was what I focused on, that feeling, as in my mind I think the word

"Lift,"

And imagine the crate in our container rising, as air pushes up from underneath it. I imagine air pushing in from each side, keeping the wooden stack from toppling.

It moves to the side, violently smashing against another crate stacked with supplies, breaking a ceramic jug we had been using to hold the water.

I cringe at the mess and the water slowly dripping down onto the metal floor with a steady rhythm, and hurry to wipe up the water with a lone blanket from Annabelle's bed.

I bend to a crouch and start mopping it up, placing ceramic pieces onto a bowl that somehow didn't break.

Stepping back to survey my work, I place my right foot down on a stray shard about five centimetres long, and yelp as it pierces my flesh and goes through muscle.

Cursing at myself, I hop backward onto my blanket pile and look at the wound.

Even looking at it seems to make it hurt more, as if my eyes controll wind that pushes and twists it in deeper.

The protruding part doesn't look exceedingly lengthy, and it doesn't feel like it's in incredibly deep, but it still hurts like hell.

Biting on my lower lip, I tentatively reach down. I don't touch it, not yet. If I do, it'll make the pain worse, and I won't be able to try again. I need to grip it, and then rip it out.

I plan what I do next, if only to prolong pulling it.

I'll throw the shard into the corner and quickly wrap my foot in Annabelle's blanket to slow any bleeding.